With an exasperated sigh, Beatrice kicked the coverlet off her body and sat up. She hesitated a moment, not thinking, aware only of the sharp tangle of frustration knotted in her belly. Sighing again, she jerked open the bedcurtains, wooden loops clacking, and slid off the bed. She padded across the floor to the windows as if she might find Sebastian in the small yard below.
She missed him, missed him so much she could not sleep nights, aching for his warmth and his passion. It had been a week since he had left; surely she had had time to grow used to his absence. But she still longed for him.
She leaned against the wall, resting her cheek on the window frame and staring out into the starlit night. Did Sebastian miss her as she missed him? Was he finding sleep as elusive? Or had he forgotten her as soon as he rode away?
She knew he desired her; that fear had been laid to rest. Yet if she had thought the knowledge would satisfy her, she had been wrong. Having gained the passion of his flesh, she now longed for the passion of his heart. She wanted to know he loved her.
Why?
Because, God help her, she loved him. Was this love new, or was it her girlhood love coming to life once more? Did it matter? Surely the ache in her breast, the fear of hurt and the longing for Sebastian’s company would be the same, whatever its source.
She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the panes of glass, hard and cold against her skin. She did not want to love Sebastian. It could only mean pain and disappointment. Though Sebastian did not despise and hate her any longer, it did not follow that he would come to love her.
She opened her eyes and moved to the prie-dieu in the far corner of the room. She knelt, pressed her hands palm to palm and cleared her mind for prayer. But what to pray for?
Sebastian’s love?
It smacked a little of blasphemy to ask for something as worldly, sensual and selfish as one man’s love. Surely it could not do her soul any good to make such a request. If she was not to have Sebastian’s love, what did she need, what did her soul require?
Strength. Strength and the patience to bear whatever fell upon her.
She bent her head and began to pray.
In the morning, she was still restless, as if the flesh beneath her skin itched. All through Mass, she fought herself and her body’s reluctance to be still. She wanted Sebastian, and no amount of reminding herself that he was a day’s ride away, too far to join, was enough to ease her longing.
As she left the chapel, wondering how she was going to endure a morning spent quietly stitching in the solar, John fell into step beside her.
“What ails you?” he asked.
“How now, John,” she said. “Is that any way to greet me?”
“Do not be pert. I have not seen you fidget like that since we were children. What ails you?”
She sighed. John was as persistent as the tide and as unstoppable. “I miss Sebastian.”
His eyes narrowed as if he understood what she meant, that her body missed Sebastian’s. She held her breath, waiting for his accusation, or worse yet, his questions, but his expression cleared as if he had learned all he needed to in that one moment and would ask nothing more.
“What you need, Bea, is a good ride. Come, let us go.”
“I must attend our mother,” she said, though it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“You would rather ride with me than sit in the solar, I know it.”
When they had been young, how much mischief had he coaxed her into by naming her secret wishes as if they were nothing to be denied or fought? He could have made a ride through hell sound reasonable. Yet, despite knowing that, she could not resist him, not when he named her need.
John had been right; the ride, across the fields and along the lanes around the castle, with her mare swift and strong beneath her, was what she had needed. She and her brother did not talk, but they rarely did when riding together. The pleasures of movement and wind, the changeable beauties of the country surrounding Wednesfield, consumed them both. They wandered for an hour, until the sky closed in. Turning toward home, they raced the rain to Wednesfield, winning but only just. The first fat drops plopped on the cobbles of the courtyard as they released the horses into the care of the stablemen.
In the screens passage, Beatrice stopped John before he could leave her. “Bless you, John. I did need that.”
“It was my pleasure. I am yours to command.”
She glanced at him in time to see him grin at her and she grinned in answer. “I am glad you are home. I missed you.”
His grin disappeared. “Are you glad in truth?”
“How not?”
“You and Sebastian...Neither of you seemed best pleased to find yourselves betrothed.”
His remark surprised her, enough that she frowned, hunting for the words that would speak the truth. “That is true, but you did no ill by either of us. You saved us from our folly. If we were not best pleased, it was no fault of yours.”
“Then I am glad I am home, as well.”
When she entered the hall, one of her mother’s ushers met her with a message from her mother, bidding her attend the countess in her solar immediately.
“As I am?” she asked, indicating the dust clinging to the hem of her skirt and by extension the evidence that she had been riding.
“Yes, my lady. As soon as you return.”
The usher’s sober face as well as the fact that her mother wished to see her in all her dirt made her heart check for a moment, before it resumed beating, quick and frightened. She left the usher without a word and hurried up the stairs to the solar.
Her mother was sitting in her chair with her eyes closed, her lone attendant reading from an open book. The peace of the scene halted Beatrice on the threshold. What had befallen that required her attendance in her riding clothes, yet left her mother able to listen to her woman reading to her?
Her mother opened her eyes. “You have returned.”
“I came as soon as I arrived, as I was told you wished me to.”
Her mother frowned and sighed, exasperated. “I did not intend that you should not refresh yourself beforehand. Margery, you may go.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The woman passed her as Beatrice stepped into the room. “I thought some great ill had befallen you.”
“I am sorry if you were frightened, child. Come, sit beside me.”
Her heart calming, Beatrice crossed the room to sit on the stool beside her mother’s chair. She looked up into her mother’s face. The afternoon light was bright enough to be unforgiving, exposing the web of lines at the corners of her eyes, the depth of the grooves beside her mouth. Yet her mother still had beauty in the shape of her bones, the penetrating clarity of her gaze. This was where her own beauty had come from, the mold from which she had been cast.
“Men have called me Helen of Troy,” she said, still looking up into her mother’s face. “Did they do the same when you were young?”
Her mother started as if surprised by the question. Did she not think Beatrice could see how lovely she must have been?
“No, but I was reckoned a beauty nevertheless.” Her gaze sharpened, moved over Beatrice’s face as if seeing it for the first time. “I do not think I was as beautiful as you are, however.”
“If I had not been so beautiful, my life would have been much different.”
“It would have been different, but perhaps not as greatly different as you imagine.”
There was no answer to that; her own remark had been self-pitying and bootless.
“Why did you wish me to come to you?”
Her mother reached out and brushed her fingertips along Beatrice’s cheek, her touch tender for all its lightness. “Can I not wish to see you?”
Beatrice caught her hand before it withdrew, unwilling to let her mother go. “I should have come to you in any case. Surely you knew that.”
“You have gone your own way since you were hardly more than a child. I could not be sure.”
“Have you wanted me to come to you? I always thought you preferred Ceci.”
Her mother’s fingers tightened over her own. “Ceci was always easier for me because she is so unlike me; she favors her father in more than coloring, while you and John are far too like me. I see things in myself that madden me and also when I see them in you. But I love you as much as I love Ceci. Never doubt that, Beatrice.”
Beatrice bent her head and rested her forehead against her mother’s knees. “Why did you not lock me in my room and starve me into submission when I said I would have Thomas as my husband? I know you opposed the match.” The words were spoken without her volition, as if some other Beatrice said them. Her mother’s candor had called them, as if truth demanded truth.
“Your father would not let me, and I was not so sure of my judgment to fight him. If I had known how unkind he would be to you—”
Beatrice lifted her head. “How did you know Thomas was unkind?”
“You are my child. How could I not know of your unhappiness? If I had known before the marriage, I would not have stopped until I wore your father down. If I had known, you would not have married him.”
“I did not ask my question as a reproach to you.”
Her mother smiled gently. “Did you not?”
Beatrice stared up at her, weighing her heart, assaying it for the truth. Frankness for frankness. “Perhaps in part.” She sighed. “If I reproach anyone, it is myself, for the folly was mine. Nevertheless, it is done and I will not spend another moment repining for what cannot be undone.” She straightened. The kindness of her mother’s smiles and words, the clasp of their hands, the way they spoke openly for once, gave her courage to ask a question that she would never have dared ask otherwise. “Does my father ever strike you?”
Her mother’s grip tightened and relaxed as her smile faded and her gaze sharpened. “He never has, despite some provocation.”
“Would my father ever strike you without provocation? Would he strike you because his cattle had murrain or the rain fell too heavily to hunt?”
Her mother’s eyes were gray, full of light, her voice gentle. “Did Thomas beat you because his cattle were sick or he could not hunt?”
“I have asked Sebastian to wrest a casket of gauds from Thomas’s son. Every thing in that casket was given to me because Thomas lost his temper and beat me. I know my husband has the right to correct me, but if I have done no wrong—”
Her mother rubbed her hands, palms sliding softly over her skin. “Oh, child, child.”
The grief in her voice surprised Beatrice. “He is dead, Mama. He cannot hurt me anymore.”
“You are shaking, child.”
So she was. She had not felt it until her mother spoke.
“He hurts you still, Beatrice.”
“Not as much as he once did.” And that was true, too, another thing she had not known until it was spoken. She was healing from the hurts of her marriage. Sebastian had had a hand in that, from the gentleness of his dealings with her, despite his anger, to his tenderness towards her in bed. The balm of that let her smile at her mother and turn the subject. “May I ask you again, did you send for me simply to see me?”
Her mother smiled in answer. “I will henceforth. Today, however, I sent for you because a letter has come for you.”
“A letter? From Sebastian?”
“No, not from Sebastian. I believe it comes from Sir George Conyers.”
She went cold, all the warmth in the room gone. Why did you write...what if Sebastian finds out...Why will you not leave me in peace? She had known some evil would befall her, but she had never imagined this.
“Beatrice, you are pale. Does this Sir George threaten you? Shall I send for your father?”
“No!” She looked up into her mother’s face. “I pray you, tell no one of this.”
“Who is he?”
Beatrice bent her head and once again pressed her forehead against her mother’s knees. “I am so ashamed. I cannot tell you.” But she was going to tell her mother; she could feel it. It was why she had hidden her face.
“I will not condemn you, child. Was he your lover?”
Beatrice lifted her head, surprised once more by her mother’s quickness. “Sebastian thought so.”
“But no longer does.” Her mother’s eyes were fathomless, as if she had seen everything at least once before and had long ago left judgment to God.
“He knows better.”
“Then Thomas never consummated your marriage.”
The shock of that drove the breath from Beatrice. “How did you know?”
“Cecilia said something once about Thomas stabbing his foot to provide blood for the sheets. But I had wondered before that.” A faint smile creased the corners of her mother’s lips. “And Sebastian has done what Thomas could not.”
Beatrice’s ears burned. She had not wanted her mother to know... “How?”
“How else should Sebastian know you had not taken a lover than to lie with you and learn you were a virgin? I assume this has taken place since he arrived at Wednesfield.”
“Yes.” She could say nothing more, wishing the ground would swallow her. Was what she felt shame, or simple embarrassment? Only embarrassment; shame would not come, not for Sebastian.
“So, let us return to Sir George. If you did not lie with him, what was he to you?”
Beatrice sighed. After her priest and Sebastian, how difficult could it be to confess to her mother? Difficult enough that she had to reach for courage. “He wished to be my lover and I allowed him to kiss me and touch me where in honor I ought not to have done.” She swallowed, her face growing hotter. “There are many things a man and woman may do without great risk. George and I did most of them.”
“When did your dalliance with him end?”
“How do you know it was dalliance?”
“By the way you speak of it and of him.”
She must be growing accustomed to the shrewdness of her mother’s remarks; that one did not dismay her. “Sebastian found me with George.” She frowned, remembering. “I told myself that I would not see George after that because it had shown me how easily Thomas might catch me and I would not risk that. But in truth, after seeing Sebastian, I did not want to see George.”
“Do you know why not?”
“Are you not angry with me, Mama? I did not expect such forbearance.”
“How not? You are no longer a child, Beatrice, and I do not think your mistakes have left you untouched. Shall I reproach you when you have reproached yourself? I said I should not condemn you.”
“You did not know what I had done when you said that.”
“But I knew your heart and my own. Tell me, if you will, why seeing Sebastian meant you no longer wished to see George.”
Beatrice sighed. This she had never confessed; she had not seen it before. “Because I did not see my lewdness and shame until I saw the disgust in Sebastian’s eyes. And after I saw, I could no longer behave so.”
“Does Sebastian mean so much to you?”
Beatrice nodded. “I have not let myself know how much until now. Oh, Mama, I love him and I do not want to.”
“Why not? There is no harm in loving your husband.”
“He does not love me, not any longer. If he had never loved me, I might hope he would come to it, but a dead love cannot rise again.”
“I pray you are wrong, child.” Her mother’s thumbs resumed rubbing the backs of Beatrice’s hands, her touch firm and soothing at once. “Now, what are you going to do about that letter?”
“Return it unopened, as I have the others he has sent.”
Her mother nodded, but a faint frown creased her forehead between her brows. “If that is what you wish, we will send it back with his messenger. However, it is not what I should do, if it were me.”
Nothing she had done had driven George away, and her mother was the wisest woman she knew. “What would you do? Tell me.”
“How many letters has he sent you?”
“Four or five. I have not kept count.”
“You returned them all still sealed, if I understand you aright, yet he persists in writing to you. I think you must open his letter, read what he has written and then reply, telling him to desist.”
“I do not want to contact him.”
“You must tell him to stop or he will not. Does Sebastian know of this?”
“No!” She could not tell Sebastian, not ever.
“All the more reason to write to Sir George. Tell him you are betrothed and he must not trouble you any longer. Otherwise, it is very likely that one day, one of his letters will be brought to Benbury. Not only will Sebastian find out about the correspondence, but I have no doubt he will realize you have concealed it from him.”
“But I have done no wrong,” Beatrice said, though she knew her innocence would not count with Sebastian in any matter touching George.
“Have you not? You have concealed these letters from your betrothed husband. If you have done no wrong, why have you hidden this?”
“Do you not believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. Have I not seen your dismay with my own eyes? I am only telling you what Sebastian is likely to think.” Her mother released Beatrice’s hands and stretched out her hand to pick up a square of paper, sealed with wax, that had been lying on the table. She held it out to Beatrice. “Here, read this letter so you may know what he wants, and then we will compose a reply.”
Beatrice stared at the letter for a long moment before reaching out for it and then hesitated again before opening the seal. Was not opening the letter akin to letting George speak to her again? Refusing his letters had made her feel as if she was finally guarding her honor as she ought to have done from the beginning. Yet now her mother, whom she trusted with her soul, had advised her to do this. She broke the seal and opened the letter.
His handwriting was beautifully formed and very clear. She had not expected that; somehow, she had thought his fist would be hard to read. On the other hand, the passion of his words and the fervor of his pleas were as she had anticipated. He did not understand why she would not see him, did she not understand he loved her as a true knight, please let him come to her and he would prove how much he loved her. She held letter out to her mother.
“He says nothing I wish to know,” she said. “I pray you, read it and tell me what to do.”
Her mother scanned the letter far more quickly than Beatrice had done. “He protests too much. I do not think he loves you nearly as well as he loves loving you.” She looked up. “I do not mean that unkindly.”
“And I do not understand it unkindly. I am glad he does not love me. I would not wish to hurt him.”
Her mother snorted. “Some men, child,” she said, “are not so easily hurt. Come, sit at the table and we will compose your reply.”
“Can you not write it for me?” Beatrice said. She did not want to do this. If reading his letter made her feel as if she had given George leave to woo her, answering it felt as if she were encouraging him to continue.
“No, I cannot. This is your task to accomplish. Trust me. You will feel better when it is done.”
Beatrice smiled tartly, a host of memories crowding her. “I am not a child.”
“Do not act like one,” her mother replied with a smile of equal tartness.
Beatrice’s answer, composed with a great deal of help from her mother, was simple and straightforward. Whatever they had been to one another in the past was no more. She was betrothed to Sebastian Benbury and would marry him at Michaelmas. If George loved her as much as he claimed, he would only wish to please her, and it would please her if he would write her no more. Let him pray for her soul as she would pray for his.
Beatrice signed it with a shaking hand, her wrist aching from the unaccustomed effort. Her mother took the letter, read it again and then shook sand over it to dry the ink. “Well done, child. Do you have a seal?”
“The Manners seal, which I will not use,” Beatrice said, watching her mother fold the paper.
“Very well. We will use the Wednesfield seal instead.” She sealed the letter and returned it to Beatrice. “Give this to the boy without and tell him to bring it to Sir George’s messenger.”
Beatrice gave it to the boy and then watched him rush headlong down the solar stairs. As the turn concealed him, she had a sudden sense of foreboding, as if some harm would befall her for having sent the letter. She crossed herself to drive her fear away and turned back into the solar.
Pray God she had been wrong.